


The New Normal

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing, M/M, Prompt #2, Prompt Fill, Tarts & Vicars, Tumblr Prompt, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 00:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13306239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Greg's normal Friday evening is rudely interrupted by a little friendly kidnapping. His secret crush, Mycroft Holmes, needs him. His request, however, is not something Greg saw coming.





	The New Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts).



> This fic is a prompt fill for the warm and lovely egmon73, who asked for "I hope that's not my bra you're holding." This is a silly thing, but I hope you enjoy, my friend!

          The car screeched to a halt and Greg nearly took a header into the divider; served him right, he reflected, rubbing his nose, for not buckling in. It had all happened so fast that he had barely had time to grab his mobile off his desk before he was escorted rapidly out of the building and politely forced into the back of the rain-spotted Jag. As an associate of Sherlock’s he was depressingly used to mysterious missions, friendly kidnappings, and being kept in the dark. But it was a normal Friday; he’d hoped to wrap up his paperwork in the next hour or so and head home for the weekend. Stop by his local, exchange a few friendly barbs with the other footie fans, home for Thai takeaway and the late news.

          Not the most exciting plans, but they were his, damnit! And he’d earned them. The door opened before he could right himself, and Mycroft’s PA stood there, a faint smile nearly revealing dimples, “Detective Inspector.”

          “Why Miss Jones, how lovely you look today,” Greg quipped airily, stepping out of the backseat and grinning at her. “I hardly recognized you without your glasses.”

          Her normal attire of sleek suit, designer heels and subtle cosmetics was nowhere to be seen. Today she was wearing painted on leather trousers, high heeled velvet booties, a low cut blouse and enough lipstick to be mistaken as a traffic light. The long trench-coat which had covered most of her ensemble was nowhere in sight, instead she wore a cropped rabbit fur jacket, open over her daring blouse. During the relatively short ride she had altered her appearance still further; instead of her loose brown curls, she wore a wig—something edgy and sharp, highlighted caramel and platinum blonde; brown contacts hid the pale blue of her eyes. “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet,” she teased in a terrible American accent that brought to mind old black and white movies and gum-smacking gun molls, she clacked her way up the incline of the parking structure. “Follow me.” Greg took a purely selfish and unenlightened moment to appreciate the sight of Anthea in leather trousers walking away from him.

          “Why couldn’t we just park on this level?” Greg asked, jogging slightly up the incline. He rounded the corner and blinked. Mycroft Holmes stood waiting, hands crossed in front of him on the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella, dressed with his usual conservative flair. “Mycroft?”

          “Surely you expected to see me, Inspector?” He regarded Greg calmly, but underneath was a quiet air of tension. “You’re an excellent detective; I’m quite certain you knew enough to posit that I would be waiting.”

          “Yeah, of course,” Greg looked around the deserted structure uneasily, eyed the large tent set up behind Mycroft. It looked as out of place to whatever the hell this venture was as he did. “I’m just…what is going on, exactly?”

          Looking as remote and exasperated as always, Mycroft proceeded to tell him. “For the past several months I’ve suspected we had a mole in our midst. It was imperative that we find out who it was with complete secrecy. Thanks to Anthea’s undercover work—” Here he threw the young woman a warm look; Greg’s heart sank and he told himself not to be an idiot, “—we have very solid intel that the suspect in question is our mole.” He looked back at Greg, lips flattening into the look he usually gave him, as if he were disappointed in Greg’s posture, his accent, his intellect, his shoes, his everything. “And this evening’s event is our opportunity to unmask Smith.”

          “You need me for—what exactly?” Greg shoved his hands in the pockets of his light overcoat, studied an oil patch rather than look into Mycroft’s disapproving face, “Not official police presence—I’m sure this isn’t sanctioned. Not because you need backup—you’d call John and Sherlock in for that. Not a date—you have her for that.” He shrugged a shoulder in Anthea’s direction, telling himself he was an idiot for even caring.

          Mycroft blinked. “…Anthea is not my date,” he said at last. “This unsanctioned event does not require the presence of my brother nor the estimable Doctor Watson. No, I have agents in place should firearms become a requirement.”

          “So why am I here?”

          “You’re to be my escort.”

 

******

 

          Everything, Greg decided, had a distinct air of unreality about it. Any moment he was going to wake up on his sofa, the telly still playing, a bit of sauce on his shirt, bowl of cold noodles balanced on his chest, to find it had all been a dream. One hand in his pocket, he pinched his thigh rather hard; nope, he was awake.

          Following Mycroft into the tent, he stopped in surprise; there were standing lamps providing light on either side of a makeshift dressing table, a pile of carpets underfoot masking the cold, grimy pavement, and racks of clothing, behind which appeared to be two curtained off dressing areas. “Uh…”

          “We try to be prepared for everything,” Mycroft said lightly, selecting a few items before turning to face Greg. “It’s a Tarts and Vicars party,” his face spasmed briefly in the grip of emotion too strong for him to mask. He held out his arms, a spangled and brightly colored frock hung over one arm, and a rather sizeable bra dangling from the fingers of the other hand.

          “I hope that’s not my bra you’re holding.”

          Despair crept into Mycroft’s usually imperturbable expression, “Alas, it is mine.” He sighed soundlessly, shoulders moving restlessly beneath the fine wool of his suit. “I shall be the tart.”

          An uncharitable giggle burst out of Greg, “What, seriously?”

          Mycroft’s moody expression was enough, but he sighed long and thoroughly, to punctuate his unhappiness, “Yes, unfortunately I am most serious, Detective Inspector.”

          “I would have thought you’d be dressed as an Archbishop or something similar,” Greg admitted, smoothing out his face with his hand and thinking of his ex-wife’s serial infidelity to tame his smile.

          “While I would be most comfortable in garb of that nature, it wouldn’t allow me the level of disguise attainable. Dressing as a woman, in layers of concealing cosmetics, a wig…” his voice trailed off and he shrugged, “Needs must.”

          “Wait—so we’re going to this thing not only in costume, but in disguise?”

          “Our names are not on any list, and our goal is simply to mingle with arriving guests and avoid too much notice.”

          “In _that?_ ” Greg asked in disbelief, nodding at the garment Mycroft had hung up, “You might as well wear a flashing sign that says ‘Look at me, I’m a spy!’”

          “Perhaps it is a trifle brash,” Mycroft admitted, considering it. “I merely thought…well, tarts, you know.”

          “Real tarts wouldn’t be caught dead in that. Have you ever actually been to one of these dos before?”

          “Thankfully, no.”

          “Well, for starters, everyone is going to look like a bunch of wankers, but most of them won’t be wearing something that looks like they’re about to take the stage at Caesar’s Palace.” Greg reconsidered, “Well, unless this guy is super-posh and has invited nothing but super models and the jet set then they might all have professionally arranged costumes.”

          “No, he’s a mid-level employee with a carefully managed trust fund, hardly the type to run with _le bon ton_ , although he clearly has aspirations. So…a bit more subdued?” Mycroft tilted his head, pursed his lips in consideration, before he hung the offending dress back and flicked through the rack, “How about this, Inspector?” He held aloft a fire engine red satin gown with a halter neck and a slit all the way up to the waist.

          “Nope, looks like something a Grand Duchess would pick out for her least favourite gold-digging American daughter-in-law.”

          “What a very colourful and thorough description.” A faintly regretful air, “I rather thought I had the shoulders for a halter…oh this is a possibility—”

          “Christ, no. That looks like a bathrobe covered in shiny bits.”

          “I see. Alright, something a trifle more subdued. This, perhaps?”

          “You call booty shorts and a crop top subdued?” Greg was scandalized.

          Outside the tent Anthea smirked to herself. Inside the tent, Mycroft was annoyed enough to huff, although he managed not to roll his eyes. “I hadn’t realized what an expert you were on the intricacies of tart-attire.”

          “You need something in between Grand Duchess and hot-to-trot,” Greg said, jerking the offending garments out of Mycroft’s hands and throwing them in the corner. His face felt hot. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. Oh Christ, he was blushing, wasn’t he? It was Mycroft’s fault…now all he could think about was how Mycroft’s bum would look in those tiny shorts, how his long legs would probably appear endless. “Here, this might work,” he shoved things into Mycroft’s arms, “Hold onto both of those, will you? And this…and that.”

          “Am I to wear all of these garments together?” Mycroft looked politely inquiring, but Greg sensed an edge of discomfort. The poor bastard was no doubt dreading the idea of appearing in public in anything less than his usual suave armor.

          Greg put the pieces together. “Try this on first. Let me see if it works. If not, give this a go.” He sat down on the chair in front of the dressing table and fisted his hands on his thighs. Surely the universe was taunting him. There was no other explanation for his involvement in this entire affair.

          It was so quiet in the tent that he could hear the soft slither and rustle of the other man’s clothing as he undressed, could hear the faint purr of his zip as he undid his trousers. Greg glanced at his reflection in the mirror and winced at the open look of longing. Christ, he needed to get it together. Standing, he went to the other rack, full of clothes suitable for a man of the cloth, and found the simplest thing he could; it looked like his size too. Well, of course it would, Anthea and Mycroft were in charge of this venture.

          He changed and emerged to find Mycroft still in the other cubicle. “Mycroft? You having trouble in there?” Swallowing hurt his suddenly raspy throat, “Need a hand?” He both longed for and dreaded a yes.

          “No…I’m…I’ll be right out.” A minute elapsed, another; just as Greg was prepared to ask again, the curtain parted and Mycroft stepped through the opening.

          _I deserve a medal for self-control_ , Greg thought, keeping his eyes on Mycroft’s face except for little quick, furtive forays to check out his body. His eyeballs felt like they might vibrate out of his skull, he so badly wanted to look everywhere at once. “Hmm, might do.” _Christ, I’m cool as fuck, aren’t I? Hark at how disinterested I sound!_ “Turn around, let’s see it from the back.”

          Mycroft turned and Greg’s mouth went powder-dry from the blast of lust.

          “Will it pass muster?” Mycroft asked, beginning to turn.

          “Stay still!” Greg barked, sounding considerably less in control than he would have liked. Reining himself in, he instructed, “Just, erm, stay there for a minute. Let’s make sure the back doesn’t reveal anything.”

          Mycroft was frozen with his head to the left, “Alright, Inspector.”

          The back was fine; he could see it was fine. There was no need to study the fit and length. The miniskirt wasn’t indecent, but it was suggestive. It suited the theme of the party without being too over the top. The problem wasn’t with the outfit—aside from the fact that everyone at the party would be able to see Mycroft Holmes’ deliciously freckled legs and how lovingly the material cupped his bum. The problem was his reaction to it. Luckily his cassock provided more concealment than a pair of trousers. “It’ll do,” he said at last. He looked away as Mycroft turned.

          “I see you’re ready, Inspector—” Mycroft cut himself off with a laugh, which startled Greg, who thought it might be the first time he’d heard a genuine laugh from the man. “That seems a trifle formal for tonight’s antics, all things considered.”

          “I’ve invited you to call me Greg before,” Greg reminded him, stealing another glance as Mycroft went to seat himself and begin putting on a wig cap.

          “So you have, Greg.” Mycroft glanced at him in the mirror, and a smile lit his face, “Call Anthea in for me, if you will. She’s a much better hand at make-up than I.”

          Depression at the smile that had come over Mycroft's face when he spoke Anthea’s name sucked at Greg, who ducked out of the tent. He summoned a smile for Anthea, “Himself needs your assistance with the painting and whatnot.” He nodded toward the Jag, “I’ll wait for you there.” Without waiting for an answer, Greg trudged down the ramp to the waiting car. Stupid to feel this sense of loss over Mycroft’s relationship with his assistant; it wasn’t as if his ridiculous and inconvenient crush had ever had a hope.

 

******

 

          “Lord, what a crush,” Mycroft murmured at his side, one arm tucked firmly through Greg’s, leaning slightly against him. “This is excellent; no one will question our attendance here amongst all these people.”

          “So what exactly do we need to do?” Greg resisted the urge to fiddle with the comm unit in his right ear. Anthea and Mycroft both wore similar pieces, but on a much smaller scale, since theirs could be hidden by their wigs. Greg’s looked like a traditional hearing aid and could be explained away if needed; hidden in one of the buttons on his cassock was a high-quality microphone. The three of them were wired to communicate with one another.

          “You and I shall mingle,” Mycroft said in a low voice, turning and draping his hand over Greg’s shoulder, toying with the short hair at the back of his head. Greg fought off a shiver. Mycroft’s manner had changed, gone warmer, more affectionate and physically easy. Greg couldn’t decide if he was a stupendous actor like his brother or if something about the clothing was making him more open in his manner. He both loved it and hated it. “Anthea will slip upstairs and surveil the upper floor.” Mycroft leaned in, lips grazing Greg’s ear in a very unsportsmanlike manner, “If necessary you and I will cause a diversion to allow her time to affect entry into the study.”

          “Will we?” Greg asked, immensely proud of how steady his voice was. He kept his clenched left hand in the folds of his clerical garments and concentrated on not turning his head and kissing Mycroft Holmes silly. Instead he wiggled his upper lip experimentally; worried the false mustache would come loose. Trying to keep his hand from cramping in his anxiety, he adjusted the gold-frame spectacles sliding down his nose and wondered if he looked as preposterous as he felt.

          “First, however, let us obtain drinks and make the rounds,” Mycroft suggested, tugging slightly on Greg’s arm as he moved forward.

          “Mingle. Right.”

          Drinks in hand, they circled the room, smiling and chatting as if they weren’t committing a rather serious and dangerous crime. _I’m mad_ , Greg thought, allowing Mycroft to guide him around the room like a vicar-shaped dirigible, _this is breaking and entering. Theft of Christ knows what. I could lose my warrant card. Disgrace. Prison._ Either exposure to Sherlock had made him susceptible to bending the rules, or he was much less morally upright than he had always believed because none of those things were deterring him a whit. “Bloody Holmeses.”

          “Having an existential crisis, Greg?”

          Unable to help himself, Greg turned his head to look at the other man, and found him regarding him in turn. Mycroft’s eyes were lit up as if he were anticipating a wonderful surprise, and the look on his face… “Jesus, you love this as much as Sherlock, don’t you?”

          “Don’t you?” Mycroft asked pointedly. “Isn’t this, ultimately, why you became a part of the Met?”

          “Stop crime and have a good time,” Greg quipped, and laughed when Mycroft broke out into delighted laughter. He couldn’t resist giving him a cheeky grin and a wink that not only bordered flirtatious but brazenly crossed the border and planted a flag.

          “And there’s the look I was hoping for.” Colour high, Mycroft tilted his chin with a slight air of challenge, and held Greg’s gaze.

          “What look?” Greg hedged, fingers trembling against Mycroft’s arm. Christ he’d never wanted to kiss anyone so badly in all his life.

          “Tell me I’m wrong,” Mycroft challenged, licking his lips. “All the signs are there…agitation, heightened colour, accelerated pulse, you were stripping me naked when I watched you in the mirror watching me…you want me.”

          “God, yes,” Greg breathed, seeing the answering desire in Mycroft’s face. He reached up to cradle his smooth jaw in one hand and leaned in, intent on tasting those painted lips, regardless of their surroundings.

          _“Sorry to interrupt,”_ Anthea’s wry voice murmured delicately, _“But I think I’ve found what we’re looking for, s—”_

Prepared to howl in frustration, Greg tingled all over with nerves at her voice abruptly cutting off. Beside him, Mycroft was alert; turning away from those nearest him he lowered his voice and called urgently over the comms. Their only answer was a staticky mumble and then a screech and silence. Greg’s gut churned, as icy and terrifying as the North Atlantic in a storm.

          No answer. “Fuck,” Greg swore, “where’s she at?”

          “We’ll split up,” Mycroft said tensely, “I’ll take the upper floor, and you check this one. Start with the study—it’s the third door on your left near the kitchen.”

          With one swift look over his shoulder, Greg pushed through the crowd, smiling tensely as he murmured apologies, eyes intent on his goal. Please God they wouldn’t be too late.

 

******

 

          “Neatly done, Inspector,” Mycroft said coolly, unfazed by his tangled strawberry blonde wig and his torn tights. He watched as two agents—dressed as an exotic dancer and a priest—strong armed their suspect into the back of an unmarked dark blue van. Nodding in a very satisfied manner, he turned and made eye contact with Anthea, who was slightly bruised but unharmed, not a hair out of place as she typed rapidly on her mobile. She glanced up, intercepted the look and melted into the crowd.

          “It’s a good thing your driver is sure to know evasive driving tactics,” Greg mumbled, keeping his face averted from the thrilled and wondering audience their hasty foot chase had drawn. His cheekbone smarted from the graze of Smith’s (thankfully horrendously) aimed bullet, there was blood on his collar, he’d lost his glasses, but miraculously the mustache was firmly in place. He looked about for the ubiquitous black car, terribly depressed; Mycroft was back to calling him Inspector.

          “Clive is most skilled,” Mycroft agreed, as the car idled to a halt in front of them as if cued by an off-screen director. He opened the door and gave a very courtly bow, no doubt flashing their spectators with an excellent view of his posterior, as his skirt had ridden up to shocking heights, “Inspector.”

          Climbing inside, Greg slid all the way over and buckled in, hoping like hell he was just going to be dropped off at home. He didn’t think he could bear the drive back to the car park, the awkward drive home again after. Sod his work clothes, he had more. “Home’s fine by me—not far from here actually. Which I’m sure you know.” Please God let the man forget what had almost happened in there; Greg really didn’t want to have his stupid infatuation thrown in his face when all Mycroft had been doing was playing a part—

          “It’s what I’m counting on,” Mycroft said smoothly, closing the door and settling back as the Jag pulled away from the kerb. He turned slightly, “Your flat is gratifyingly close. My own home would take a good half hour or more of travel at this time of the evening, I wager.” His voice dropped, “And I can hardly wait that long to tear into you.”

          “Yeah…what?”

          Mycroft slid a hand across the seat, fingertip grazing the back of Greg’s hand; turning his hand gently with his own, he clasped their fingers together. Stupidly, Greg stared at the large, fine-boned hand holding his. Mycroft cleared his throat and Greg looked up into his face. “I find,” Mycroft said, sounding only slightly hesitant, “That I cannot control myself or my feelings any longer…I do hope a swift drink will be enough to ease your shock.”

          “Mycroft are you—are you saying you…want…me?” Unbelieving and hopeful, Greg stared at him helplessly, “Why?”

          “I’m drawn to you, Greg,” Mycroft explained, nerve apparently failing him as he dropped his gaze to their joined hands once more. “Before tonight I doubted my reading of your attraction to me…but after this evening I think it would be fair to say that it’s not one-sided.”

          “Not one-sided, no,” Greg agreed thickly. He laughed, “Jesus no, I’ve mooning after you for four years now.”

          “We Holmes men are a trifle slow on the uptake when it comes to affairs de coeur.”

          “John’ll find that comforting to know,” Greg husked out. His fingers were too tight around Mycroft’s he knew, but the other man didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact he was moving closer, sliding along the seat toward Greg. “I’m a mess,” Greg objected, wondering how he could be so colossally thick as to try and stop this _now_.

          “All evening I’ve wanted to kiss you breathless,” Mycroft said in deliciously sexy voice, “despite that handlebar mustache I find myself terribly attracted to you.”  He reached up, eyes gleaming in the intermittent light, “May I?”

          They both hissed slightly as the mustache peeled away, and Mycroft ran cool fingertips over Greg’s lip, murmuring something wordless. Greg snuck his tongue out and ran the tip over the slim digits, humming at the salt, the heat, the faint lemony trace of the spilled drink he’d flung down earlier. Mycroft swayed closer and Greg would have sworn it was desire and not the motion of the road. They were close enough to kiss now, and he nearly kicked his own arse when he said, “Wait.”

          Mycroft paused, doubt bleeding into the edges of his expression. Greg shook his head and reached up, touching the tangled wig, “Take this off first? I-I’d like to kiss Mycroft Holmes, not Vesper Lynd.”

          Laughing under his breath, Mycroft pulled out pins, scattering them on the floor, and tugged off the close-fitting wig, removed the wig cap and looked up at him, hair a mess and eyes smiling. “Better?”

          “Much,” Greg growled, hand sliding up Mycroft’s long throat to hook him at the nape of his neck and pull him closer. He let the heat of his breath wash over Mycroft’s lips, nudged their noses lightly together, holding onto that leonine gaze, “Hello.”

          “Hello.” Mycroft licked his lips and Greg swallowed a groan. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

          “Are you going to kiss _me_ now?”

          “Playing hard to get?” Mycroft was so close his voice vibrated deliciously against Greg’s sensitive, longing lips.

          “Maybe,” Greg smiled a tiny grin, “Perhaps I’m holding out for dinner.”

          “How do you feel about breakfast?” Mycroft queried, slanting his mouth over Greg’s without waiting for an answer. Their horribly timed arrival at Greg’s block of flats did little to extinguish the building pressure between them and with great restraint they kept their hands to themselves until they had finally obtained the privacy of Greg’s flat.

          “Breakfast, you said?” Greg panted, letting Mycroft press him to the inside of the door, one long, freckled leg sliding between his own. The man was the perfect height for Greg to ride his thigh. He took a happy handful of bum and hummed against Mycroft’s soft lips, “I don’t know if I’ll be ready to let go of you that soon.”

          “Christ!” Mycroft gasped, head falling back as Greg lipped his way up the side of his throat, teeth scraping his skin, hands holding him jealously, “I…brunch then.”

          Emerging from an exploration of Mycroft’s collarbone, Greg smirked, “Or lunch even?”

          “We’ll have food delivered,” Mycroft promised, tugging him down the hallway toward the bedroom. “I’m not letting you out of this flat until _at least_ Monday morning.”

          And to think, Greg had time to realize, falling onto the bed and pulling Mycroft after him, he’d thought this was a normal Friday. Maybe it was; maybe this was his new normal.

          He could definitely get used to this.

 

 

         

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Tumblr @savvyblunders


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